


Histories

by elekdragon, Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon), Mistress Elektra (elekdragon)



Category: Frank Herbert's Children of Dune (2003)
Genre: M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-11
Updated: 2004-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/elekdragon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Mistress%20Elektra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the moment Paul dies, Leto sees a million lifetimes of possibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Histories

Against the black curtain of his eyelids, Leto could see a thousand histories be born and die, mere flashes of what could have been. What would have happened if one of a million choices were just a little different?

In his mind, Leto saw his father stretched out on the floor next to a gameboard. He saw himself young, small, and innocent in a way he never truly was, leaning against those strong legs. Paul's hand, so large against his own, lead Leto through the rules of the game, showing him how to place the pieces. Together they checkmated young Ghanima, laughed as Mother took her place. Her face was defiant and proud as she challenged Father to another game.

Another life. He knelt beside the sun throne, eyes aching as he stared up at the Emperor in his glory. His fingers just touched the edge of Muad'dib's foot, close enough that the sandworm flesh was hot and dry, his hands so cold, his heart hushed in silent worship.

Another world, another kind of worship. A burst of salt in his mouth. A pleasured sob in his ear. A rough, dry palm on his cheek as Paul lifts his face for a long, searching kiss.

A soft, dry dune. An empty horizon. The far-away sound of a worm calling to the rising sun. Father's voice was clear and cool as he slowly described a world far away, where waves of water crashed against great black rocks, throwing out foam and spray and the sweetest of music. Leto rubbed his cheek into the soft leather of Paul's shirt, comforted by his arms and his voice, not yet ready to return to the sietch walls. Asking in a voice much too old for another story.

Feeling the slow, frightening suffocation as blood filled his lungs, his infant sobs cut off in a gurgle as Father screamed, so far, far away.

Accepting the caskets of water that were once the body of a god.

Touching a face he knew better than his own.

A hand on his shoulder.

A mouth on his neck.

A smell.

A touch.

A cry.

It was too much, too fast, too many lifetimes that were never to be. Leto threw back his head, letting the full roar of the sandworm within him break out of his throat, drowning out the cacophony of futures dying. The ground trembled. The crowd disappeared. The world merged into a single, unknowable Now.

Leto slowly lowered his head. It took a long moment, stretched out over lifetimes, before he opened his eyes. With the softest of touches, he brushed his finger across his father's chin, and received no response.

Paul Muad'dib Atreides was dead.

THE END


End file.
